A last faux pas
by EmmanuelleG
Summary: The smell of blood, the taste of blood – it was everywhere. In her mouth, in her eyes, dripping down her nose in small, mocking droplets that had stained Erik's shirt. Modern take on Leroux and Erik and Christine. VIGNETTES.
1. Chapter 1

The lack of Leroux here lately kills me.

I know I suck at updating, but I am working on my stories. It might sound crazy to you, but I have this stupid fixation to fix every story I have here before continuing it. I'm just that awful.

So as I've said, there's not enough Leroux. PEOPLE, gimme more Leroux for God's sake LOL. So I figured I'd post something. If you like it – great. If you don't – well, I tried. If it inspired you – awesome (doubt it, though). But seriously, just thank you for reading.

Before you ask (that is, if you do haha), I don't know myself whether this is a one-shot or not. We'll see, I suppose.

Oh. This is modern Leroux, not AU, really Leroux. I want to see how this turns out. Perhaps it's a prologue of sorts, I really don't know.

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><p><strong>A last faux pas<strong>

She imagined him on the floor, so far away yet unbearably close; hands upon a burning chest; mouth opening and gasping for air; forehead sweaty, eyes red, palms leaving scarlet trails on the shirt they were clenching. It was like a nightmare, only true. The cliche and irony of her thoughts struck her, and then she was no better than the tortured young man she loved. Just as hurt, just as wounded. Her mind registered pain, but her knees didn't and so she fell onto them, onto the floor, curled up against the wall. Something inside whispered that it was supposed not to feel good, that she was to run away from a feeling so unpleasant – and yet, all there was was relief.

One, two. Her eyes were closed. It was better this way; this way the heat couldn't get into them; this way the heat could not burn them. It still ran down her hair, though: little, quick streams of red. The metallic stench followed soon after, and she grimaced. Not unexpected, but repulsive all the same. The fingers around her throat weren't a surprise either, but she had desired to somehow escape the only outcome there was if she were not to pass out.

"What is this ?" he screamed, and his voice was as high and shrill as the day she tore away his mask.

Another strike of irony.

She could barely see him, refused to meet his eyes, and as her nails dug into his wrist, he let out a cry of what she supposed was light pain. Well, a small victory was a victory nonetheless. But then again, reason had left her hours ago and she no longer knew what she was doing.

"Christine !" This time his voice was louder – and oh, was she dangling her feet on the verge of madness or was there genuine terror behind the facade of mercilessness ? How odd, how deliciously odd.

"What are you doing !" It wasn't a question. It hadn't been one for almost a minute now. "Look at me !"

Christine. _Christine_. Her name, how she hated her name this instant. Why was she Christine? Why couldn't she be anyone else – anyone really, anyone but herself. But she was Christine and he was Erik, and this was reality. Him shaking her was not a nightmare; his mask sliding down his face and revealing a little more of the horror it was concealing was true; that the man she loved had had his ribs broken because of her lies was not a fragment of her imagination. It was all agonizingly _real_.

"Don't touch me !" she yelled, choked on the blood dripping right into her mouth, and yelled some more. "Get away from me you criminal, you liar, you..you...monster !"

Months ago he would have dropped her, allowing her head to crack open, and said horrible things, disgusting truths. Now he was presenting a cold, half-composed demeanour for he hadn't ceased trembling.

"A liar, a monster ?" he asked.

"A monster," she confirmed.

And then she was hurting again – she was on the ground once more, bloody hands clawing around in an attempt to find him, to stop him from doing whatever he was planning. She could only hear him.

"So, I am a monster ?" she listened carefully, pushed her hair away from her face and stared. "Truly, Christine ?"

His hands were behind his back. This never has been a good sign. They weren't moving, proving her right : he indeed had found what he had been searching for while she had fought to gain a clear view of him. Perhaps it was already hidden in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"Truly."

She knew this wasn't the right answer. Nothing ever was with Erik, unless the reply was his own reformulated thoughts, ideas, desires even. Freedom of speech had been allowed only in the choosing of arias to learn and clothes to buy. She instantly regretted that she had never used the credit card he had given her to its full advantage. Book a dozen of flights to different destinations and then just buy a train ticket with her own money. It would have been the smart thing to do.

Tick tock. Christine remembered the time. It was soon to be midnight. What a faithful time, often associated with fairy tales. A third strike of irony.

His hands were all over her face before she knew it; caressing, brushing hair away from the raw wound, grazing over her lips and cheeks.

"Stop being so stubborn," were his words, "stop, stop it, I beg of you. Be rational, Christine."

To do what he said was indeed the _rational_ thing to do, the good thing to do. Had she done it from the very beginning, Raoul wouldn't have suffered. But Erik was right on one point – she was stubborn. Stubborn in believing if only for a second that everything was possible with a plan.

And his touch was more than she could handle. She tried to turn away, he caught her chin; she tried to bit like a wild animal, but it didn't seem to matter to him; she spat in his face, and yet he simply wiped it away with a sleeve. Those hands were the same hands that have killed people, those thin, bony, reeking of death hands were touching her.

"I don't want you."

All was silent. All was silent for a very long period of time. It was almost entrancing to see him so disoriented, so lost, as he took some steps away and then was leaning on the same wall she had banged her head against. For the first time, he had heard her.

"Mad girl," he whispered.

His spidery, naked fingers tore at the buttons of his jacket as they fought to get inside. She held her breath; he held his. The gun, she had seen that gun before. She had surprised him once by breaking into his office. It had been early in the "vacation" she had spent with him, and she still had been ready to crash his head with a lamp and run for her life. Of course, he hadn't expected it though Erik always expected everything – this threw him off guard. In a similar fashion, he had thrown the gun in an open drawer and proceeded to lock it before chastising her.

Now the gun was back. It was almost a relief to get her suspicions confirmed.

"I knew you'd end up doing it," she sobbed.

Christine couldn't tell why she was crying. There were too many reasons. She was crying for herself, for poor Raoul, for the man she didn't know but who had taken a bullet in the shoulder by shielding the boy. She was weeping because despite everything she still wanted to live – despite the ultimatum, despite the fact that she was either to be condemned to a literal tomb of Erik's creation or death away from everyone. It was sad and unfair. This, she told him.

"You don't have to die," Erik murmured to her.

She forgot the anger, forgot everything but the crushing despair that no longer allowed her to breathe. Christine cried like she hadn't cried since the night it had fully occurred to her that her father was dead, that he was not coming back no matter what she kept telling herself.

She crawled towards him, but said nothing. When at first she took his hand, he tried to pull away, to leave the sobbing, kneeling girl to herself, however decided against it. She buried her face in that cold skin of his and whispered words he could not hear and of course misinterpreted. The gun lightly nuzzled her neck as his other hand uncertainly caressed whatever it could find – a little bit of cheek, eyebrow, chapped lips.

"Please, Erik," he looked down at her, and hope hit her like a lightening bolt. "Erik, please, please ! If you really, truly love me..."

It had worked once. As a matter of fact, it had worked many times. It was with that little phrase that she had convinced him to let her go, had convinced her that she wouldn't run. She had convinced him that in order for something to grow trust had to be given. And always he had fallen for it.

Now he pushed her away.

"It's midnight," Erik said. "I could call my men and they'll have your boy hanged – most unpleasant death, Christine, most unpleasant – in a few moments. But I figured I can just walk there myself and let you count the seconds before the gunshot." She opened her mouth, shakily stood up, threw her arms around him and muttered things she couldn't hear into his chest, but just like before he evaded her. "Feel free to bang your head some more," he told her.

The smell of blood, the taste of blood – it was everywhere. In her mouth, in her eyes, dripping down her nose in small, mocking droplets that had stained Erik's shirt. It made her head spin, it made her cry, it made her realize that soon Raoul would be bathing in a pool of iron-tasting, scarlet water. And his eyes would be closed – or perhaps open, but he would be as lifeless as everything surrounding her, Erik included. He would never reprimand her again or urge her to abandon all behind and just "leave the Hell for Vermont" where his older brother was.

"Erik !"

_Erik_ wasn't listening. _Erik_ was unlocking the door she had spent hours trying to unlock herself. She had lost a nail in trying to do so. It still hurt horribly.

"Erik, Erik, Erik !"

The door was open.

"Give me the ring !"

He didn't ask if she was certain, if she was in her right mind, if she was lying in order to win her beau some time. He didn't question her motivations. He simply helped her slip the plain, gold ring onto her bloody finger and stared at her for a moment. Christine allowed it. She allowed everything from the murmured promises to the stroking of her hair and light kisses along her cheeks. Some time later he made a phone call; but she wasn't sure of what he said.

Maybe he lied about letting everyone go if she were to accept the deal. Only, she didn't have the strength to ask. It was better off as a mystery torturing her with curiosity than a reality stabbing her with truth.


	2. Chapter 2

So I decided to make this into vignettes. And for Erik using a gun, I thought that it would simply be easier in this day and age. A unique weapon like a punjab lasso would draw unnecessary attention – a simple gun ? Every criminal has one. It's more difficult to find the owner.

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><p><strong>He shot a cat<strong>

"You are...hurt."

"And you, my dear, are so very observant."

He had left for the night. At first, she hadn't given it much thought. He was a man of peculiar character and violent moods; sudden, irrational decisions weren't beyond him. Later, she understood that he never left her alone for more than an hour. Never the mind that all doors were locked and her morning tea usually "sweetened" with something that made her fall dead-asleep for the rest of the day – he never left for that long. And especially not at night.

Now he was back, and the pale rug was slightly drenched in blood.

"Your leg," she murmured. And then she repeated her previous statement anew, "You are hurt."

"Spare me your pitiful acting, and get some water," he snarled.

So that's what she did – she filled a bowl with water and brought it to him.

At first, he merely looked at her: pale even through the mask, smirking behind a curtain. It was an accusing glare, one that she could not stand. Christine knelt next to him and stared at the blood marring his pants. By all means, the wound was in his thigh.

"You would have brought him hot water."

She snapped out of her trance. "What ?"

"Him." Erik plunged one hand in, retrieved it, and splashed some water onto her face. "You would have brought him hot water."

She hadn't thought of it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm-"

"But of course we know that you are not," he finished the sentence.

He had ripped a small enough opening in his pants. Watching him working on the wound was enough to turn her stomach upside down. Still, she could not get up and leave. The stench of blood along with the sound of something metallic hitting the floor made her feel sick. Her fingers dug into that very stained rug.

"I love you."

By his lips, what seemed long ago, it had become a threat.

She didn't answer. His face was in his hands now, and he was hunching forward like a man who had taken the final blow. I know, she wanted to say, I know that, please stop telling me it.

Instead, she asked, "Will you be alright, Erik ?"

"I don't know, dear heart, I don't know," he breathed through his teeth.

They weren't talking about his leg anymore.

Suddenly, she couldn't take this anymore. Christine got up, a hand hovering hesitantly in the air, close to him. To touch him would perhaps bear a meaning of his own creation – one which could prove to be fatal for her. Her sigh brushed past him, and he looked up.

"I do love you," he told her. "I do, Christine."

"I know, I know."

He asked her if she could bring him some more water – to drink this time. In the kitchen she froze, and then filled a glass and a mug. When she came back, he gave her a curious look while pressing a towel to his thigh.

"This is tea," she said quietly. "This is water."

"Thank you."

There was no feelings to be found in his voice. She sat next to him on the couch and they talked until he told her to go to sleep. Just like every night. He had been shot, and their routine still hadn't shifted. Christine didn't know what kind of omen that was, but went to bed gladly. Only with the door finally closed behind her could she breathe easily.


End file.
